Prepared, Not Paranoid
by Downside-Left
Summary: Stiles' paranoid planning (he calls it being prepared, thank you) reaches epic proportions just before Isaac gets shot with a wolfsbane-and-bloodroot-laced bullet and nearly dies. This paranoia (being prepared) takes many forms, including his Emergency Wolfsbane Kits (EWKs). These frequently come in handy.
1. EWKs

Disclaimer: not mine

Title: Prepared, Not Paranoid

Summary: Stiles' paranoid planning (he calls it being prepared, thank you) reaches epic proportions just before Isaac gets shot with a wolfsbane-and-bloodroot-laced bullet and nearly dies. This paranoia (_being prepared_) takes many forms, including his Emergency Wolfsbane Kits (EWKs). These frequently come in handy.

A/N: First ever Teen Wolf fic! Don't judge too hard.

…

It starts during the summer after the debacle with Gerard and the kanima. Erica and Boyd were still missing, Jackson had freaked the _hell_ out and run for the hills (meaning Bermuda or New York or London, somewhere far, far away, where his lawyer-father's firm had other offices), and Allison and Scott were still broken. Derek, Peter and Isaac had been (slowly) refurbishing the burnt-out shell of the Hale house, Scott had brooded over his situation, Lydia had refused to have anything to do with any of this madness, and Stiles….

Stiles dealt.

He had his own issues, after all. Post-traumatic panic attacks from what Gerard had done, from everything he'd seen over the past year. His relationship with his dad was somewhat better, but he still hadn't brought it back to where it had been before. Lydia was constantly texting or calling Jackson in an attempt to get him to come back home, but, so far, with no success. Stiles had mostly given up his hopes for a relationship with her, primarily because he'd seen her face (and Jackson's too, come to think of it) when he'd been changing from a kanima to a werewolf. He knew love when he saw it. Although they fought like hell sometimes, they truly did love each other.

Speaking of _true and tortured love_, Stiles had been spending a lot of time with Allison, of all people. She didn't really have anyone else lately, since Lydia was so preoccupied with her own issues, and the 'Scallison' relationship had fallen to pieces. And since Scott and Isaac were becoming such _bestest fwiends_ these days, what with the running around through trees and hunting rabbits, or whatever it is werewolves do, Stiles has taken it upon himself to be her new friend.

Not that they weren't friends before. Well, they actually weren't. It was more friend-of-a-friend kind of thing, with some awkward sexual tension around Scott (on Allison's part; for Stiles it was just awkward because the two of them were so nauseating), and a few werewolves and hunters and lizard-monsters thrown in for extra flavor. But that isn't the point. The point _is_, he's being her friend now.

Of course, that means that a lot of what they talk about is werewolves.

He gets an interesting look into the way hunters work, too. Chris is a lot nicer now that he's not throwing Stiles around demanding answers about Alphas and murders and all the horrible things that Stiles is all too used to these days. He teaches Stiles a lot, actually. Turns out, there are a lot of different kinds of wolfsbane, and a variety of ways to prepare it. Stiles absorbs this knowledge, and, during his visits to the Argents' house, memorizes the security codes, where the keys and important supplies are kept, and what their schedules are. The thing about military types (which is what the Argents are, although Allison denies this), is that they get into routines (call it a rut, that's what it is), and then become predictable.

Part of Stiles feels bad about using Allison, but it's a small part. The rest of him is focused on keeping his friends (if Isaac, Derek and Peter can count as friends) alive and unhurt. Wolfsbane was not something to dick around with.

So he squashes his guilt with extreme prejudice and, one Tuesday afternoon, when Allison and her dad are off at target practice (in the woods, just to be creepy; it's like they're having a creeping-contest with Derek. Which is silly. Derek would win), Stiles sneaks into their house, successfully disarming the security system and picking the locks on their doors. He only takes samples from the three strains of Wolfsbane that the hunters have the most of. He figures that they won't be missed, and will be most useful in his experiments.

Because Stiles doesn't want to watch his best friend die of a wolfsbane bullet. He doesn't want to have to cut _Derek's arm off_ to keep the Alpha alive. So Stiles is gonna do what he has to do, even if it means betraying Allison's trust and conducting chemical tests on wolfsbane.

If chemistry is involved, however, Stiles is bright enough to defer to a keener mind. Lydia's, in this case. Not that he isn't pretty damn smart in his own right, but he's probably going to be using this stuff on people he cares about, to save their lives. He wants to be sure that it works.

It takes a surprising amount of effort to convince Lydia to help him, however.

"For the last time, Stiles, take your stupid magic crap and shove it," Lydia snaps, glaring at him furiously. "This cost me my boyfriend, my sanity, and any chance I had at avoiding being a social leper like _you_. I don't want to hear it."

She pushes past him, and starts to walk away. Stiles snags her arm, but drops it immediately at the death-stare she gives him (a lot more intimidating than Derek's, honestly). But he persists nonetheless. "Look, you want Jackson to come back, right?"

Lydia's frown doesn't waver a hair.

"Well, when he _does_ come back, he's still going to be a werewolf, and there are still hunters around," Stiles continues doggedly. "So what happens if he gets shot or stabbed or something-ed with a wolfsbane-laced weapon? Are you going to cross your fingers and hope that you can find another sample of the wolfsbane, and that Derek will tell you how to cure him? What if there isn't time? What if you can't reach Derek, or he's being his typical pain-in-the-butt self, and he won't help? Do you want to be prepared?"

She doesn't answer immediately, just sighs, shifting her glare to her shoes.

"Alternatively," Stiles says, holding fast to the hope that she would see his side of things, "Alternatively, you could help me. I have a few samples of wolfsbane, and I want to make antidotes. I don't know enough about chemistry to do it myself, but I know a lot about wolfsbane, and how it works. If we worked together, we could make antidotes for _every single strain_ of it, and then the hunters wouldn't be able to kill us as easily–"

"Listen to yourself," Lydia interrupts, staring at him incredulously. "You sound like you're already one of them. Like you're 'Pack'."

Stiles blinks at her. "I'm trying to keep Scott safe, and alive. That means I have to do the same for Derek and Isaac, and Peter too. If that makes me Pack, then I'm Pack. Now, will you help me?"

Lydia narrows her eyes at him, but, after a few moments, heaves a dramatic sigh. "I suppose I owe you, after all."

Stiles nobly refrains from dancing around gleefully, and instead merely grins widely. "So when do we start?"

Turns out, Lydia on a mission is scarier and more determined than anything Stiles has ever run into before (including a murderous rampaging crazy Alpha on a revenge-kick). Before three days are over they've managed to put together antidotes for the three different varieties of wolfsbane Stiles had stolen, and a way to run tests on new wolfsbane samples to develop antidotes. They make as much antidote as they can, and then Stiles has to make a decision. Does he risk sneaking back into the Argents' house and stealing more samples of wolfsbane, or does he pray to his dear and fluffy lord (the same one who let his mother die) that the Argents only use those three kinds of wolfsbane?

He goes with the former.

Of course, this time his luck runs out (naturally), and Allison catches him in the basement of her house, with a backpack full of plastic baggies of wolfsbane. He spares a moment to wonder if this is how pot-smokers feel when they get caught by someone (plastic baggies of plant-substance spilling from their hands as outraged and furious friends-or-family-members start yelling wildly), and then Allison pauses.

"Why do you want those, Stiles?" she asks slowly. "I mean, you're obviously not going to use them to kill a werewolf. So…?"

Stiles puffs out a sigh (he's been hoping to avoid this conversation for a while yet), and says, "Lydia and I are making antidotes. So if someone gets shot with a wolfsbane-bullet, they won't die."

"Someone. You mean like Scott," Allison looks down at her feet.

"Yeah. Or Derek or Isaac," Stiles says, in the spirit of full disclosure. "And Peter too, I guess. And Boyd and Erica, if they ever come back."

"Is that… is that why you've been spending time here?" Allison asks hesitantly. "Why you've been my friend?"

"No!" Stiles protests immediately. "No! I mean, it was a side bonus, but I _do_ want to be your friend. I feel kind of responsible for the way you and Scott fell apart, and–"

"Why do you feel responsible?" Allison snaps. "It was my choice, and it was Derek's fault–"

Stiles holds up his hand, and says, firmly, "Don't blame him, alright? I know what he did; he told me. But did anybody tell you _why_ he bit your mother?"

Allison's face freezes. "No."

"She was killing Scott," Stiles says bluntly. "Poisoning him with some kind of wolfsbane-gas. Derek went to save him, and in the fight, he bit her. I don't think he really knew what was going on, because he was breathing in the gas too. But she knew what she was doing."

Allison says nothing, just stares at him.

"I know she was your mom," Stiles continues, voice softening with empathy (not _sympathy_; he knows how she feels, knows exactly what it's like to lose your mother and be so filled with rage and despair that, for a little while, you lose yourself), "but she was killing Scott, because he was close to you. She thought she was protecting you, but… werewolves and packs, you know? Threaten the pack, and they overreact."

Stiles waits for Allison to say something, anything, but she doesn't.

"So…" he says, and shoves the last few bags into his backpack. "I'm going to take these. And go. And I'll understand if you never want to see me or talk to me again, or if you feel like I've betrayed you, but I really do want to be your friend. I know what it's like to lose a parent, and… I mean, if you need to talk about it. I'm here. But I guess not just now, because I have to get these to Lydia, so that we can make more antidotes."

"I could stop you," Allison says abruptly, shifting to block his exit.

"You could," Stiles agrees amiably. "Buuut I don't think you will. Because you still love Scott, and you don't want him to get hurt."

"But you'll use those antidotes on Derek too, won't you," Allison responds. It's not a question; she knows Stiles too well for that.

He nods, and says, "I don't want anybody to die. I mean, if it was Peter, I wouldn't mind _that_ much. But I'm not going to sit back and do nothing if I can help somebody."

Allison stares intently at him, and then steps to the side. "Fine. But this is the only freebie you get, Stiles. I catch you in here again, I'm telling my dad."

Stiles takes a moment to snicker internally at the inherent childishness of that statement, even though he knows that Chris Argent could beat his ass into the ground if he wanted to. Then, with a cheerful nod farewell, Stiles shoulders his backpack and heads out the door.

After that, his friendship with Allison is pretty strained, but he puts it out of his mind for now. He and Lydia have too much to do.

It takes them two weeks to develop all the antidotes, even though they work at it for hours, every single day. There were a lot of strains of wolfsbane in the Argents' basement, and they have to factor in all the other possibilities. What if the hunters combine two different strains? What if they add in other herbs, like valerian (Stiles had seen a lot of valerian in the Argents' house)? What if, what if, what if….

When they finish, Stiles organizes all the different potions into different bottles (all labeled and color-coordinated), and then puts those bottles into six separate cases: one for his room, one for his car, one for the Hale house, one for the train station, one for Derek's car, and one for Lydia's car (although she protests). He also keeps the original three antidotes on his person at all times (in his backpack, in his pocket, anywhere), and in unbreakable plastic bottles, too. No glass vials for him, thanks.

The werewolves call him paranoid, with varying degrees of affection (Scott says it fondly, Isaac with bewilderment, and Derek and Peter say it with mild derision). But it pays off, in the end.

The Argents aren't the only hunters around, after all. And not all of them 'Follow the Code'.

They're all taken by surprise. The Pack (including Lydia, because she's basically Pack now) is having a meeting at the Hale house. It's not about anything of much importance; Derek is merely saying he still can't find Boyd and Erica, Isaac is still complaining about being the only _real_ beta in this pack (because Scott barely counts, since Derek isn't _really_ his Alpha; and Peter's just an anomaly), Peter's brooding in the corner, Scott is spoiling for a fight with Isaac after the last training-bout (Isaac kicked his ass), and Stiles and Lydia are sprawled on the couch, only half-listening, mostly just debating whether or not they have time before curfew to do more research about whether or not angelica-root's healing properties would be helpful in counteracting wolfsbane. And then fiery hell comes blasting through the window.

At least, that's what it feels like to Stiles. He and Lydia both shriek (later he will insist that he merely _'bellowed in a manly and intimidating fashion'_, but it is a shriek) and fling themselves to the floor, aware of the fact that they are woefully unprepared for this. The werewolves spring to their feet, fangs and claws gleaming, and fling themselves through the broken window, howls tearing from their throats. Stiles and Lydia can hear screaming, roaring, and gunshots from outside.

Stiles, exhibiting a presence of mind that shocks him later, crawls across the glass-shard-coated floor to where the Emergency Wolfsbane Kit (patent pending) is stored. His stomach twists when he hears a pain-laced howl come from outside, followed by three roars of rage.

Then there are only sounds of screaming and ripping flesh, with only the occasional gunshot. And then silence falls.

Well, no. It's not quite silence.

Stiles can still hear panting and coughing coming from outside, and a low whimpering whine that makes him seize the EWK and bolt for the door (because he's just not agile enough to jump through a broken window carrying a fuck-all heavy box of antidotes, _thank you_ very much), followed closely by Lydia.

Derek and Scott are both kneeling over Isaac's prone form, while Peter prowls among the still bodies of the hunters. Isaac is the one whimpering, and Stiles and Lydia are at his side in a heartbeat.

Lydia pulls his head into her lap, and holds it firmly between her hands. Stiles opens the EWK and pulls out the Tester Bottle and a gleaming, plastic-wrapped (and thus sanitary) knife.

"What do we do?" Scott says, clearly on the verge of panicking. "Stiles, what the hell do we do?"

"There aren't any bullets left in their guns," Peter calls from where he's inspecting the dead hunters. "You won't cure him that way."

"We don't need to," Stiles grits out, and turns to Derek. "You need to Alpha."

"What?" Derek asks, scrunching his face into an expression of confusion.

"Keep him calm, use your Alpha-skills," Stiles snaps. "Because this is going to hurt like a bitch."

Derek looks at the knife in Stiles' hand, nods, and turns back to Isaac. Within a few moments, Derek has Isaac's breathing calmed down, and has practically hypnotized the younger Beta.

Stiles mutters something about 'Svengali' under his breath, drawing a raised eyebrow from Derek, but then sets the knife against Isaac's skin, next to the bullet wound on his shoulder.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" Scott yelps.

"I need to know what kind of wolfsbane it is," Stiles says absently, carefully digging the knife into Isaac's shoulder. The Beta whines in pain for a moment, but Derek's eyes glow red again and the wounded boy calms down once more, though still clearly in a fair amount of agony.

"But–" Scott protests, but Lydia interrupts him.

"He's taking out the bullet, but he also needs a sample of the poison," she says harshly. "See, he's putting that… flesh-lump, God, Stiles, that's nasty… into the Tester Bottle, and…."

Red smoke curls out of the bottle, and Stiles lets out a rough '_HA_' of relief. "Got it!" he crows as he snatches a bottle with a red label reading '_Type 4Bloodroot'_ in Lydia's precise handwriting and forces it down Isaac's throat. The Beta convulses for a moment, choking on the foul taste in his mouth, and then goes still. For a moment, the rest of the Pack (even Peter, who has slunk up behind them when they weren't paying attention) freezes with fear that it didn't work, that he's dead, that they've lost someone else and that it's going to be war with the hunters again, because they can't just let this go, they can't just do nothing if Isaac's dead –

But then he coughs heavily, his eyes pop open, and he says in a hoarse voice, "Damn it, Stiles, that shit tastes like… shit."

Stiles laughs, and, after a moment, Lydia and Scott join in. Isaac smiles weakly from where he lies, not moving yet because it still hurts, damn it all. Derek does a half-lip-twitch that may or may not be a smile (Stiles privately thinks it is, and is oddly proud of himself for making the Sourwolf smile), and Peter rolls his eyes at all of them.

After this, they don't make fun of Stiles' EWKs anymore. Scott tries to come up with better names for them (he's unsuccessful, because, well, he's Scott, and this kind of thing isn't his strong suit), and Lydia is smug about it for months. Derek privately asks Stiles if he could make a few more kits, in case they had to make more safe places to hide from hunters. Peter does nothing, because he's Peter and he doesn't actually interact with anyone on a regular basis. And Isaac buys Stiles a cake as a thank you.

And, for a little while, things are OK.

Of course, not everything out there uses wolfsbane to fight werewolves. There are other wolf-packs roaming about, and other creatures of the night (or daytime) that could kill them easily. So Stiles doesn't stop researching, and starts planning other Emergency Kits for other things that would hurt his Pack.

Because he spoke the truth when he talked to Allison. He may not be a werewolf, but he counts himself as Pack. He has to defend his Pack as best he can, and since he can't rip throats open with his bare hands, this is what he does. This is how he keeps them safe. This is his role.

Some people call it being paranoid, all this planning and organization and research. He calls it being prepared.

…

A/N: Please let me know how well written this is, pleases and thanks!


	2. Hex Bags

Disclaimer: not mine!

Title: Prepared, Not Paranoid

Chapter 2: Hex Bags

Summary: While the EWKs are awesome, wolfsbane is only _one_ of the many things that can kill, injure, maim, or otherwise bother werewolves (and humans, too). Stiles isn't going to stand by and let anything hurt his Pack. If that means making hex bags and dabbling in magic… in the words of Ace Ventura, _alllllrighty then!_

A/N: Continued because it wouldn't _leave me alone_! But then it got stubborn and wouldn't talk to me anymore, so I had to creep after it like Derek and be really weird. Case in point.

…

After a few days of self-congratulation over the EWKs, Stiles drops right back into research mode. Not that he isn't thrilled about his amazing success, but there are always beasties and baddies to best (and alliterations to make, because who doesn't adore alliteration?).

The first thing he starts looking into are vampires, but he quickly gives that up as a bad idea. Not only does he have excessive difficulty finding anything that doesn't _sparkle_ (god, what is _wrong_ with the youth of America today? Don't they remember _classic_ vampires? Like Dracula? Or Angel and Spike?), but Peter had legitimately cracked up and laughed himself almost-sick when Stiles asked about them. Apparently, vampires aren't real. Fine. Moving on.

His second point of interest is witches. Are witches? Bah, grammar. Anyway, witches.

Not witches like Deaton, to be totally specific. Deaton is… well, he's weird, and has weird magic mojo weirdness. That's Stiles' opinion, anyway, and he's sticking to it. But he's researching _other_ magic. Things less based on faith, trust, and pixie dust. Or powdered mountain ash. Same thing. But while that's lovely, and Stiles is a ginormous fan of mountain ash (no, really. Mountain ash is his new best friend, sorry Scott), he wants something he can actually _use_ with a fair amount of reliability. Magic powder you have to practically give yourself an aneurysm believing in? Not his idea of anything very useful.

So he's been digging around online and in some old books to find anything more _concrete_ than what Deaton has to offer. The first few things he finds are mostly just nonsense about crystals and incense and cleansing your aura of negative juju, or something, but then he finds something good.

Hex bags.

Apparently, the best way to ward off a witch's curse (or hex, or spell, or potion, or anything at all, really) is with a hex bag. If you've got a hex bag on you, and it's powerful enough, you can get whacked with a heavy-duty death-curse and walk away unscathed.

Stiles probably isn't quite good enough yet to pull of _that_ level of hex bag, but hey, give him time to practice (of course, that practice also includes learning magic, which Stiles is really OK with, although Lydia has some genuine issues with it, thank you Peter. She won't talk about it though, and Stiles knows better than to poke his nose into _that_ mess, because he's not an idiot, in spite of what Jackson used to insist. God, he does _not_ miss that douchebag).

The recipe he settles on, after a fair bit of experimentation that leaves his and Lydia's eyebrows singed off for a good three days (and she beat his ass _so hard_ for that, and wrung a promise to _never ever ever ever_ talk about it, so that's where the story ends, thank you), is pretty interesting.

The base of each hex bag has to be specifically tailored to the wearer of the bag. Stiles practices with himself first, and, since the base has to be something that speaks to the wearer of _safety_ and _comfort_ and _peace_, he bases his on thyme. His mom had always smelled a bit like thyme, from all the cooking she'd done. So, for him, thyme smells like home. To the thyme, he adds eyebright for mental powers, chili pepper for curse breaking, burdock for protection and healing, clover for exorcism and success, and datura (also called moonflower, which cracks him up a bit) for hex breaking and more protection. Lydia's hex bag has most of the same things, except that it is based on roses. She flat out refuses to tell him why, but has that sad little wrinkle between her eyebrows that only ever pops up when Jackson rears his ugly head (even if it's just figuratively speaking). He bites his tongue, and doesn't ask. He also refrains from putting in any number of herbs that would repel snakes, but that's mostly just because he would be the only one to find it funny.

Of course, you can dump herbs in a bag and wave it around all you like, but it doesn't _do_ anything unless you have the proper mental focus.

OK, so maybe Deaton isn't _entirely_ full of crap with his faith-trust-mountain-ash-dust theories. But it's _different_, damn it! Stiles builds the base for the magic, and then… infuses it with mountain ash and his will. Oh god, that sounds ridiculous. But that isn't the point. The point _is_… hex bags. They work. And they work well.

At first, Stiles and Lydia do minor tests. 'Poking' each other with minor irritant spells. When those are still having no effect, after several hours of 'poking', they upgrade from _minor_ nuisances to actual offensive spells, which were a bitch and a half to learn, let him tell you. There are some minor incidents, since it seems that neither of them has very good _aim_, and Stiles is going to have to buy himself a new desk out of his own savings, and he _still_ doesn't know how to explain that to his dad.

After the… desk incident… they move their practice sessions to the yard outside the Hale house. The werewolves watch from a safe distance, avoiding flying projectiles and trying desperately not to laugh at the expressions on Stiles and Lydia's faces.

For their biggest, last test, Lydia preps a massive explosion to hurl at Stiles' head. Fire and wind and earthshaking geysers, the whole shebang.

Scott protests, naturally. So, surprisingly, does Derek.

"You could kill him!" Scott flails at Lydia. "Or, or, or seriously hurt him!"

"Stiles is human," Derek adds, scowling. "He won't heal if you screw up."

"Stiles is also standing _right here!_" said human waves his arms over his head. "And I am fully capable of making my own decisions! I know what I'm doing!"

"I'm with Stiles," Isaac pipes up. "The EWKs saved my ass. It'd be nice if hex bags worked, too. Then when witches inevitably show up and try to kill us, we'd have some defense."

Peter snorts a little, but then nods reluctantly. "They have a point, Derek. Witches are slippery bitches."

Isaac inches away from Peter, trying (and failing) to be unobtrusive about it.

"Can we stop arguing about what's, frankly, none of your business?" Stiles glares at all the werewolves, impartially, and, without waiting for an answer, turns back to Lydia. "Alright, genius. Do your worst!"

Lydia smirks at him, and then, with an air of intense concentration, holds her hands out, palms up, at waist height. The ground rumbles, the wind picks up. The temperature is rising, and the werewolves are nervous.

Without any further warning, Lydia flings her arms straight up in the air, hands clenching into fists, shrieking something in Latin that the werewolves can't decipher (maybe Peter can, but he's not telling). The earth splits apart with a roar, flame thunders down out of the sky on the wings of the wind, and a vast geyser of water explodes from the ground. All of it centered on Stiles.

The werewolves spring to their feet, even Peter (who still gives off an 'I-don't-really-care-about-any-of-you-I'm-just-using-you-for-my-own-nefarious-deeds-mwah-ha-ha-ha' kind of vibe) and vibrate with tension, waiting to see if they need to run Stiles to the hospital, or run themselves out of the state (the country? the hemisphere?) to avoid the wrath of Papa Stilinski. But then the dust begins to settle, and they see Stiles, precariously straddling the crack in the earth, grinning broadly, fists raised over his head in an unmistakable gesture of triumph.

From there it's a fairly simple process of making a hex bag for each Pack member. Their hex bags are somewhat different from his and Lydia's, lacking the datura (the 'moonflower' vibe makes him twitchy), but having anise and St. John's Wort for still more protection and power, and mulberry for strength. He's wary of adding the mountain ash, but the bags won't work without them. He runs some tests, forcing Isaac to be the guinea pig (because he has experience, after the EWKs, and because Scott's in detention at the time, Derek flat out refuses, and Stiles doesn't really want to ask Uncle Bad-Touch for any favors), and figures out that silk, of all things, will help negate the effects of the mountain ash, although _not_ the beneficial influences of the rest of the herbs. It's incredibly fortuitous, and Stiles doesn't really understand _why_ it works, but he doesn't question it (yet. He'll be back to poke at it later, when he's not busy hunting down difficult-to-find herbs in oddball shops and creepy farmer's markets).

Scott's hex bag is based off lavender, a scent that his mom and Allison both wear (Stiles _oh so nobly_ refrains from making an Oedipal complex joke, mostly because he doesn't think Scott will really _get it_. Not that Scott's dumb, because he's _not_. He's just not all that great with the references to classics and things that he doesn't have as basics in his life every day. You know?) Isaac takes more poking and bothering to dig up a base, but eventually he confesses, with a furrowed brow and a fixed stare at his shoes, that his mom always smelled like vanilla, so Stiles hunts down some vanilla extract and douses the whole concoction with it.

But if Isaac is reluctant to talk, he's _nothing_ compared to Derek and Peter. Stupid bastards.

Stiles bites the bullet and finally corners Creepy Peter.

"Would you just _tell me_?" Stiles rolls his eyes dramatically, still making sure to keep a good three feet between the two of them. Stiles is more confident in his ability to defend himself now than last time he spent one-on-one time with Uncle Creep, what with all the magic he's learned, and the hex bag hanging around his neck. If it comes down to it, there's about a fifty-fifty chance he'd avoid Peter if the werewolf attacked. Not that he worries about this kind of thing. Ever. Jeez, his life.

Peter shrugs, raising an eyebrow. "Does it matter? Are you _really_ going to make a hex bag for me? One that would protect against _your_ magic?" he smirks a bit, leaning back against the wall behind him. "Somehow I sincerely doubt you're not hedging your bets."

"Um…." Stiles says intelligently, fully aware of what Peter means but trying desperately to pretend he doesn't.

"If I go rogue again," Peter meets Stiles' eyes squarely. "If I snap, and revert back to the way I was. You want a surefire way of taking me down, in case Derek can't, or won't."

Stiles thinks of a number of snarky and/or witty retorts, but bites them all back, and decides on saying nothing at all.

"Mm, that's what I thought," Peter nods, lips twisting in a wry smile. "Not that I blame you. It's what I'd do. But it _does_ negate the value of you making me a hex bag. So I think I'll pass."

Stiles contorts his face in frustration, and then puffs out a sigh. "Alright. Fine. But if you change your mind, or if we get proof that you're _not_ going to flip…?"

"Oh, don't worry, if I think I can use a hex bag, I'll ask," Peter reassures him quickly, a look on his face that Stiles doesn't really have the time or energy to decipher.

Next on his list (before the Argents, because Allison is his friend, and he just _knows_ she'd push and push and _push_ until he made one for her dad, before Mrs. McCall, before his dad (and _how_ he's going to explain that to his dad he hasn't figured out yet)) is Derek. King of avoiding, king of refusing to answer questions, king of obnoxious pain-in-the-butt-ery. Buttery? Whatever.

It takes him four days to pin Derek down. Lydia flat-out refuses to help him, because she maintains that he and Derek have a 'more profound bond', which makes him roll his eyes dramatically, because there's no _way_ he didn't get the _Supernatural_ reference, in spite of Lydia's claims that she's a bigger fan than he is. No. No way.

But back on topic. When he _finally_ manages to track Derek down and _forces_ him to answer his question.

"Oranges," Derek is very quiet when he answers, keeping his eyes on the floor. "My mom. And Laura. They had… orange shampoo. Use oranges."

Stiles nods, twisting his mouth around in a desperate effort not to pepper the Alpha with more irritating demands. "OK. Oranges. I'll, uh, get that together for you. Should have it by tomorrow. You know Peter doesn't want one? Said if we ever had to take him down, like if he went loony again, he shouldn't have protection from us."

Derek scowls, still not meeting Stiles' eyes. "He told me. But it's his choice."

Stiles puffs out a dramatic sigh, and leaves Derek to his moping. It's what the Alpha does. Not that Stiles _approves_ of such silly brooding, but it is what Derek does. It isn't _healthy_, but who is Stiles to judge? He's not exactly well-adjusted and/or healthy when it comes to his mother, so why should Derek be? But it bothers him. He's never been good at leaving things be, and this is one of those things. Derek shouldn't be miserable all the time. But since he doesn't know how to fix it, Stiles shoves it to the back of his mind to think about later, along with the magical properties of silk. God, thinking was hard.

He makes hex bags for Allison and her dad, using cherry blossoms as the base for both of them (Allison's mom's perfume). Mrs. McCall, for a change, does _not_ use something that reminds her of her mother (or wife, in Chris Argent's case), and instead chooses lilacs, which had grown outside her house as a small child. Stiles spends a few hours pondering the prolific appearance of mother-related scents as the bases for his hex bags, but then dismisses it as the Pack and affiliates all having deep-seated issues with abandonment and misery.

His dad is the last stumbling block. The Sheriff is still mostly unaware of the supernatural world, although he's figured out a long while ago that something _weird_ is going on, and that Stiles and his friends (which, for some disturbing reason, includes Derek Hale and his creepy uncle who sets off all the parent-alarms in his head, specifically the ones about skeezy predators) are at the center of it more often than he's comfortable with. But he doesn't _know_. About the werewolves and the hunters and the magic. Oh, the magic.

Stiles thinks his dad will be OK with the werewolves and the hunters. Papa Stilinski is a pretty cool guy, who, having raised Stiles, knows how to roll with the punches. But the fact that his son has not only thrown himself _into_ this highly dangerous world, but has embraced magic and become all… witchy (he hates that word, but he's not sure what to use instead. He's not a _warlock_, that just sounds evil. He doesn't have a magic wand, so wizard is out. He doesn't wear a pointy hat, so not a sorcerer. Plus, none of those _feel right_. And with magic, feelings are important. So he calls himself a dude-witch. It's not perfect, but it'll do until he figures out _what_, exactly, he is), is not something that the Sheriff will handle with any amount of aplomb.

But his dad has a tendency to get caught up in disasters and the magical madness of Beacon Hills, so he has to brace himself and tell his dad the truth.

Or.

Or he can come up with a clever lie to trick his dad into wearing the hex bag, all the time, no matter what happens. That lie will be the cleverest, most genius and brilliantly inspired lie _ever_ in his long, uncomfortable career of lying to his dad. Mm. Yes.

Except he can't think of one. The _one_ time he needs his magic lying skillz, and they fail him.

After all, _how_ do you go about telling your dad: one, you frequently use magic; two, werewolves are real; three, most of your friends are werewolves; four, things and people try to kill werewolves; five, you often get caught in the crossfire because of the magic and the werewolf-friends; six, this magic silk bag of plants will protect you from the possible inimical magics that might be raining down on us all in the near future; seven, did you forget to mention that you're Part of the Werewolf Pack? Practically Pack Mom?

Oh yeah. That will go over _so well_.

In the end, it doesn't really matter, because the witches arrive before Stiles can actually figure out what to tell his dad.

Now, although he and Lydia have been learning magic, with the hex bags and the EWKs, they're not actually very _good_ at it. Most of what they've got is some brute force 'GRR, SMASH!' type spells, and the ability to use mountain ash. In the face of a coven of witches that have been doing this kind of thing for _years_, they don't have much of a chance at all. Plus, these witches seem _smart_, and don't roll into town with spells flying and a big sign on their car saying 'HI WE'RE A COVEN OF WITCHES COME TO DESTROY THE WEREWOLVES OF BEACON HILLS, HOW YA DOIN'?' because nobody _does_ that. Not in real life, anyway.

In fact, they only realize that the witches are there when Stiles' dad goes missing. And not the kind of missing like he went for a long drive and didn't come back; the kind where his car is found on the side of the road, hood and engine crushed into a tangled mess, the driver's door hanging open, and no sign of the Sheriff.

To a human observer, this is inexplicable. Maybe he hit a bear? Or two? Or a rock fell on his car and… then ripped open his door? Or it was a gang on PCP?

To a _werewolf_ observer, there is an easier explanation. Just use your nose. Magic, like most things, has a particular smell to it. Lightning and earth and wide open skies (please don't ask how something can _smell_ like wide open skies. You're not a werewolf. You won't get it.). And the Sheriff's car _reeks_ of magic.

There's no question about it; the Pack is going after the witches, right the hell now. Even if some of them (Peter, we're looking at you) are reluctant to barrel in with no prior planning, Stiles is about to explode with rage, tension and suppressed panic. There's no waiting. No planning. They find out where the goddamn witches are, and they go. _Now_.

Lydia digs up a scrying spell, figures out how to use it (without blowing anything up or setting things on fire, so that's progress), and then pinpoints the Sheriff's location. Derek _does_ make them wait for at least five minutes to arm up and call the Argents (he doesn't want to call them, but Scott flat-out insists, saying that the hunters are better equipped to ambush a dangerous coven like this, and they could use all the help they can get, but it's no dice in the end anyway, because all the get is the answering machine). Stiles is no help, practically frothing at the mouth to get after the witches and save his dad.

They charge the abandoned warehouse that the witches have holed up in (and _god_, that's so very predictable. Abandoned warehouses, jeez) with little to no real plans. They've got their hex bags on, the werewolves have their fangs and claws out, and Stiles and Lydia have a number of heavy-duty smash-and-crush spells prepped. Stiles braces himself, knowing that however this ends, whatever happens next, his dad is going to know about the magic and the werewolves and everything.

Crap.

The doors blast open at a gesture from Lydia, and the whole group charges through the gaping hole, guns and claws gleaming. The four witches are facing the doors, as if they were expecting them, with the Sheriff sitting quietly on the floor in the corner, eyeing them warily.

The tallest of the witches, a brunette with unhealthily pale skin, leers creepily at them (the part of Stiles' brain that isn't raging at the witches for taking his father is a bit irritated by the creepiness in that stare; Derek is the only one allowed to be that creepy) and says coldly, "the mongrels and the fools, all in one place. How convenient."

"Now we don't have to chase them down to kill them," the shortest of her companions says cheerfully, blue eyes gleaming fanatically. "Our God is smiling on our mission, my dears."

"Shut up," Stiles snaps, unaffected by the madness in her eyes. "Let my dad go. Then get the hell out of town."

"Or what?" the first witch says with a wry twist to her mouth. "You'll kill us? You? A part-pack of half-breed curs, and two untrained dabblers? What could you possibly do?"

Stiles has noticed, in the past few months, that the members of this pack have a flair for the dramatic. Overblown entrances, impassioned speeches, histrionic fights. A full-fledged dramatic freakout takes preparation, takes work, takes… a cue.

And that, right there? That is the best cue Stiles has ever heard.

He and Lydia flick their wrists, engulfing their hands in flames. The werewolves bare their fangs and flash their claws, howls ringing through the room. The witches shriek, and fling their hands over their heads, lightning flickering around their arms.

And the Sheriff flinches back, bracing himself against the wall. His eyes are wide and panicked, fixed on his son, who is flinging fire at the women who took him captive.

Something is rotten in the state of Beacon Hills.

Before the man can do more than blink and stagger to his feet, jaw hanging slack and numb, the… creatures (werewolves? What?) have subdued (er, killed, in one case; that older man, the uncomfortable creeper, is licking the blood off his claws with evident enjoyment, ew) three of the four witches. The first one has been backed into a corner by Stiles and Lydia, each slinging fire at her shields, battering them down. She screeches something in a language the Sheriff doesn't understand, but that grates on his ears like sandpaper, like nails on a chalkboard, like something _wrong_ and _dark_ and _evil_. And she's targeting his son. Stiles.

God, no. No, no, no.

He makes it maybe two steps before she crooks her fingers at his boy, snarling something _awful_, and makes a throwing motion with her hand. A globe of sickly yellow light appears and speeds towards Stiles, who throws his arms up in an attempt to stop it. The Sheriff's legs are still shaky from the recent revelation, and he only manages one more step before the light-globe makes contact. But not with Stiles.

Derek Hale, of all people. The man (werewolf, judging by the fact that he's got fangs and that his eyebrows seem to have moved to his sideburns, or something, God what is _with_ this town?!) has flung himself bodily onto Stiles, getting in the way of the blast and going limp, seemingly stunned.

The rest of the pack (jeez, is that _Scott_? Scott, Stiles' partner-in-crime, the asthmatic kid whose voice kept cracking at the most awkward moments?_ He's_ a werewolf too?) howls in rage and lunge for the witch, whose protections fall under a renewed onslaught from Lydia. Peter gives the killing blow (a fact that the Sheriff stores away for further pondering later), but the majority of the Sheriff's attention is on his son and the man sprawled on top of him. Wow, awkward phrasing.

"Stiles?!" he shoves Derek out of the way fairly brusquely, but he'll worry about _him_ if Stiles is OK.

"Ow," the boy says shakily, rubbing a hand over his chest. "Oh my _God_, Derek, you weigh like, eight billion pounds, man. Seriously. What the hell."

Derek grunts, lurching to a sitting positions and resting his head on his knees. "See if I help you next time."

"I had it under control! Hex bags, remember?" Stiles squawks, hauling himself halfway upright. He opens his mouth to continue berating Derek, but then freezes when he catches sight of his dad. "Um. Hi, dad. You OK?"

The Sheriff nods slowly, eyeing the now-silent werewolves standing behind Derek. One of them, Isaac (he thinks), offers a hand to Derek, who takes it and drags himself to his feet. "Yep. I'm fine. You?"

"Um. Yeah. I'm good," Stiles bites his lip nervously.

"So… anything you want to tell me?"

"Uh…. Werewolves are real?"

He says nothing, merely raises an eyebrow at his son in a classic parenting-demand for more information or you're grounded, buster.

"And, um, they're all werewolves," Stiles waves vaguely at everyone behind him. "Except Lydia. She's… a witch? And, uh, I am, too. Well, I mean, _witch_ is such a loaded term, I really don't like it, but I can't think of anything better, y'know, except, like, dude-witch, but that just sounds stupid. So. Um. Yeah. I do magic. Is the… short version. Of that."

The Sheriff nods, still saying nothing.

"Um. So. Are you… do you… come on, dad, say something!" Stiles flings his hands in the air in exasperation.

He shakes his head. "Nope. I'm not saying anything until tomorrow. Because if you're all still witches and werewolves and whatever tomorrow, then I'll start dealing with this. And believe me, I'll have some questions for all of you," he fixes Derek and Peter in particular with a very Sheriff-y glare. "But for now…" he raises his hands in an 'I-surrender-to-your-collective-madness-please-don't-eat-me' gesture. "For now, I'm not saying anything. I'm going home. I'm going to sleep. And I'll deal with this tomorrow."

He stands up, pats Stiles on the shoulder (snickering internally at the dumbfounded look on Stiles face, which is mirrored eerily well on _every_ other face in the building (except the witches, who are either dead or unconscious)) and heads for the door.

"Nine a.m. tomorrow, you're all at the house for questioning and breakfast," he calls over his shoulder as he leaves. "_All_ of you."

The door closes with a _bump_, and he heaves an exhausted sigh, before walking towards his car.

'_Deal with it in the morning,'_ he thinks through a haze of confusion. _'Just… deal with it in the morning.'_

…

A/N: I will most definitely be getting back to that silk-bag thing, because it is relevant in the future. And more about what's going on with Peter. Because I'm planning things for this! Woo! And Erica and Boyd _will_ be coming back. They're just spending some quality time with the Alphas. Which sucks for them.


End file.
